


Echoes

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Marc wants to notice Roman or is actively keeping tabs. It's just kind of impossible not to notice him, innit? Especially when those bloody Essen papers have absolutely nothing else newsworthy to publish other than what Those Gay Skaters have been up to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes

Marc Hagendorf is flying Dortmund to Hamburg when it happens. Business class, a rare splurge, because after the bustle of the latest tour and all the driving that he’s done this month, he feels like if he has to take yet another long-haul trip in cramped quarters, he might just go on a random killing spree.

The stack of free newspapers when he boards the plane includes a generous selection of all the big national publications, plus pretty much every little regional one that the _Ruhrpott_ has to offer. Marc helps himself to one of each, feeling thoroughly out of touch with any news, either global or trivial. The show’s been taking up so much of his attention that for the past three months he hasn’t had time for any news except the reviews that people shoved at him in passing.

He steps on board the plane with a sudden unexpected thrill at the thought of going home: the airy space of his own apartment, the familiar texture of his own sheets. No nervous skaters, no cranky choreographers or trainers, no fickle audiences; in fact, no people around him at all unless he wants them to be. The thought is positively decadent.

Some exceptions will have to be made, of course, Marc thinks, smiling faintly. René called the night before last, sounding pleased enough at hearing Marc would be back by the weekend and asking how soon they could see each other. It’s hardly going to be a tearful reunion, Marc knows, but he’s kind of grateful for that too; glad that there’s going to be someone there to touch, a person that he can slot firmly into the category of “home.” Things have been much easier between them since they decided to be casual, and right now the prospect of having someone waiting for him with genuine affection but no demands fills him with a deep, content appreciation.

He relaxes into his spacious seat, reacquainting himself with the luxury of simply sitting down and stretching out his legs. He’s both exhausted and wide awake, as if he’s moved long past the simple need for sleep. Stubble rasps against his fingertips when he rubs a hand across his face. He doesn’t quite remember when he last shaved. Should do that before he meets René, he reminds himself. He’s none too fond of facial hair, the bloody fop.

A bright chiming sound overhead heralds an announcement: Something about take-off being delayed due to backed-up runways. Marc shrugs, once again glad for having coughed up the extra money for the comforts of business class, and reaches for the stack of papers in the empty seat next to him. He thumbs through the pile first, then selects a local one at random, opening the sports pages first out of habit.

Familiar as he is with Essen’s figure skating scene and the infamous Steinkamp Centre, the picture catches him unprepared nonetheless: Splashed across almost the full page, it shows two skaters in a basic sixth position lift. Nothing unusual there, except for the fact that both of them are men.

And that he knows them both. One only from photos and a couple of tapes recorded at entry-level competitions in pair-skating with some blonde girl whose name Marc can’t remember.

The other…

He swallows, mouth gone curiously dry, and his fingers lift of their own accord, hovering over the picture. He pulls them back before they touch and curls them firmly around the edge of the paper, even as he consciously tries to calm his suddenly rushing pulse.

It’s Roman. Roman Wild, again.

Marc blinks, trying to remember if he’s heard anything about the Steinkamp team going for similar pairs, but if there was any news, it hasn’t reached him. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised that Roman would agree to that sort of thing, not anymore; but old habits are hard to shake.

What’s even more surprising, though, is the pair itself. The last time he’s seen these two in any sort of combination was a good couple of years ago, when an illicit picture of a kiss brought about much less of a scandal than anyone involved probably expected. When Roman wasn’t fired, didn’t drop dead, and wasn’t even hounded by the press.

Marc snorts involuntarily, then lifts the paper slightly to examine the picture from a strictly professional perspective. The boy’s a little sloppy on his feet, his left leg turned out less than it ought to be, but his back and shoulders are straight and he looks confident enough, the strain of his partner’s weight not even showing. Roman is flawless, though, extended arm and leg forming a perfect line while the other leg curves back; the sweep of his shoulder arching gracefully into his turned neck. That latter bit is an oddity and confirms Marc’s suspicion – already gleaned from the slightly grainy quality of the picture – that this is a candid shot rather than a deliberate pose. There should be no eye contact; Roman should be facing the other way.

Reluctantly tearing his eyes away, Marc quickly reads the article accompanying the picture. It’s short, and he feels his mouth pull into a sympathetic grimace at its callous sensationalism. “Put out to pasture,” indeed. He’s confident enough that it isn’t true. There’s real promise in every line of the pair’s captured figure, and an intriguing rapport that’s hard to define. Physically and performance-wise, they compliment each other well, and the Steinkamps have always had a good eye for profitable business, even though their ethics may be questionable.

Dismissing the article as the cheap kind of fabricated scandal that the _Ruhr Report_ favours, Marc returns to the picture. He’s always had an eye for detail that bordered on pedantry. In his professional life, it is an asset, allowing him to pinpoint quickly and accurately what needs to be fixed about a show, and how. As far as the personal aspect is concerned… it can be a nuisance.

It is one now, as his eyes are drawn to the two men’s expressions, analysing almost against his will. The boy – Deniz, Marc reminds himself, no use pretending he doesn’t know the name inside his own head – wears his smile with as much easy grace as he does his faded hoodie. It’s different from the cool public smile that Marc has seen on his model shots: this one is open and warm as drizzled honey, a puzzling combination of cocky and shy.

Roman, on the other hand… his smile is benign but brittle, mouth closed and lips compressed. There’s approval, even fondness, but both are shaded deeply with caution. For a brief, dizzying moment that’s aided by the plane beneath him finally moving, Marc feels himself swept up in an odd rearrangement of perspectives. He remembers, with shocking clarity, a time when Roman wore the same smile Deniz wears now: guileless and hopeful and charmed by any affection turned his way. He wonders briefly if his own expression back then already held that tinge of cynicism that Roman’s holds now or if they were both too young and too unblemished by the world.

He breathes in sharply, a sudden pang of regret taking him by surprise.

Marc has seen plenty of pictures of Roman, of course, especially this past year when he and the Steinkamp girl were the big news in pair-skating; but there is no denying this one’s different. He can’t help wondering what’s behind that exchange of smiles caught unawares; can’t help his curiosity about the gap between that first picture years ago and this one, with news sparse and unreliable in that two-year period. He knows there was a break-up, and an ugly one at that, though none of that news can be relied on, handed down as it was through the ranks of a dozen or more gossipers.

Of course what happened in between is none of his business, and it’s not his place to wonder, but then he’s never been entirely capable of not caring what happens to Roman Wild. Angling the paper in his hands, he spends a moment idly marvelling at how unfairly well he’s aged. His face is sharper, yes, and he’s filled out some, his shoulders broader and his skinniness having shifted into compact muscularity, but he hasn’t aged the same way Marc knows he himself has. When he looks in a mirror, he can tell, handsome or not, that he is well past thirty. Whenever he’s encountered a picture of Roman, or competition footage, he could still see the seventeen-year-old lingering not too far below his features, could all too easily catch traces of the boy he used to love in that expressive, angular face. Occasionally, Marc has wondered whether he sees them because they’re really there, or just because he wants them to be.

He’s of an easy disposition, not given to maudlin moods and too pragmatic for pining, but he knows, in a matter-of-fact sort of way, that there are things in his life that are unfinished, afterpangs that have dragged into chronic aches, resurfacing rarely but reliably. Roman Wild is one of them.

Marc knows that there are people who leave something behind when they go; something more sly and subtle than an absence. The hollow of their leaving can be patched over easily enough, and even filled in time; but there’s a sound he can hear sometimes, hidden deep and swaying at the edge of memory and make-believe: an echo of laughter in a voice he remembers, and it hurts, even now.

He smiles to himself, oddly pleased and sad at the same time, and gives his fingers free rein at last, allows them to brush that sharp-boned face, rendered in cheap ink and unfairly spared by the years between.

“What are you setting yourself up for, then?” he murmurs, not really knowing whether the question is directed at Roman, at the dark-eyed boy, or at himself. Somewhere below him, the engines finally gain force and roar to life, propelling the plane skywards. His question is drowned in their noise, as are the silent ones beneath it, the ones he has no answer for.


End file.
